Disclaimer: I don't intend for this to be taken seriously. Consider it an amusing alternative tale of how Fëanor and Nerdanel met. Please enjoy!
It was a quaint sight. The simplicity of the woodwork was not in anyway diminishing the general aesthetic but rather added a certain homely atmosphere that was pleasing in its own way. With the light of Laurelin at its brightest shining upon the house, the only thing that could be said to sway his original intentions was that this, in fact, was not where Fëanor was supposed to be.
A quick glance at the map and the scribbling excuse for writing that had to be called his directions assured him that he had either misinterpreted or the writer was in error. Likely the latter, as the nervous elf he'd asked a few hours back had not struck him as particularly competent.
He was most likely in a whole different part of the town altogether.
Suppressing a sigh, he surveyed the area for anyone who could be of assistance and cursed his luck that he had declined to take along any of his servants. Though it was perhaps a blessing in disguise that he had not borne along any witnesses to such nonsense as this. The High-Prince lost on his way to start his apprenticeship with Mahtan Urundil would certainly be enough gossip-feed to fill his father's halls back in Tirion.
Hard pressed as he was to correct his journey as soon as possible, Fëanor started toward the small building in hopes that he would come across someone who could tell him where he was.
The entrance of the house lead to a large receiving chamber, larger than what Fëanor had expected from the outward appearance of the building. The ceiling was high and slightly arched with white wooden walls, and all across the hall, strange figures were lined one after the other, glittering in the light pouring into the room through the many large windows on both sides.
A gentle scent of earthy essence met his nose, and Fëanor could not help but smiling at the pleasantness that seemed to hold the place in its grip.
Clearly this was the studio of a master artisan, a sculptor, who more likely than not had ties to Mahtan.
As he continued further into the room, he took the liberty of viewing the sculptor's works, those strangely fascinating wonders which he found, as he approached closer, were cleverly shaped and intricately detailed. He reached out and ran his fingers gently down the smooth curves, sharp angles, and styled edges of the white stone.
True beauty, to be sure, even if one could not quite comprehend what the shapely forms were.
Some seemed as birds, with long, elegant wings and vast pinions that seemed ready to take flight but were so unlike the wings of true birds that one couldn't properly compare the two. Likewise, others bore some similarity to the the bodies of foxes, hounds, or horses and yet were utterly and dramatically different.
But still captivating and beautiful in a sense, he thought. Yes, this person was certainly skilled.
Fëanor pulled away from the statues and turned inward, intending to continue his search for aid when he halted, startled.
There, by the doorway leading further into what must be the more personal chambers of the house, stood the one who was surely the master himself: a tall grim figure, sharp of face, with ebony locks pulled back into a artist's plait and his broad form clothed in a sculptor's smock. His twinkling black eyes, full of mystery and imagination, held Fëanor's gaze with ease and a steady stance.
"I hail you, master craftsmen!" The young prince raised his hand in a polite greeting and tipped his head in a small bow. "And I praise your fine work! Tis surely a happy turn of events that has led me to witness the fruits of your skill."
There was an uncomfortable pause in which the tall noble elf made no answer, but continued to stare with the same queer glint in his eyes.
Fëanor stopped in his tracks (for he had intended to approach the newcomer) and tried hard not to convey his confusion or, to his dismay, lower his eyes. Certainly, he had not given offence to the elf with his words. Perhaps his unannounced entry was seen as trespass? Had he made a mistake in assuming that the studio was open to the public?
"Master, forgive me if I have intruded on your property in such an imprudent manner," he stated earnestly, bowing his head once more to the elf as one of lower state and class. After all, in case he had in fact made a scandalous misstep, it was best to remain an unknown, erring young elf rather than call on his title as High-Prince. Quite a story that would be!
"I mean no offence to you nor your household! I have had the misfortune to lose my way in search of the master Mahtan under whom I am to be an apprentice."
His words remained unanswered, yet, rather than appearing angry or irritated, the sculptor was silent, still, and watched him with an almost smug-like smirk on his otherwise grim features.
Fëanor was suddenly trying very hard not to clench his teeth. How dared this elf, master or not, peer at him like a knowing elder at a nervous and guilty elfling! What had he done to deserve this silent, mocking treatment!
With a heavy voice, Fëanor tried once again. "Sir, if you are so disinclined to accept my most sincere apology, at least take pity on a weary traveler and point me in the right way, if you please!"
Curse the fey light of those black eyes!
The prince was sneering openly now in frustration before the tall noldo, who hadn't moved and was looking far too amused and self-satisfied for his own good.
Fëanor had half a mind to turn and make a swift, deliberate exit, perhaps "accidentally" knocking one of those precious twisted works of art from its high and grand pedestal for good measure. Instead, he strode forward, chest out and arms stiff at his sides, until there was only a small gap between him and the dark noldo sculptor. "I believe myself to have been very patient and civil with you, master craftsman," he growled in a low voice. "I do not know why my presence here has caused you to act in such a disgraceful and disrespectful manner, or if this is how you are accustomed to treating your guests, but I will let you know that I will have no more of it! I demand an explanation for this behavior at once! Speak!"
Unfortunately, an explanation was not so quick in coming, and the taciturn elf was just as unresponsive being growled at, rudely, as he was being praised or pleaded with, politely. In fact, if it was even possible, he looked rather more amused and more smug up close, with the daylight dancing his clever, mischievous eyes all the same, as if this event was highly entertaining for him.
"You are defying your High-Prince, elf!" Fëanor shrieked, in a voice and volume he usually reserved for a particularly irritating half-brother of his. "It is Prince Fëanaro you mock, you fool! And I said, speak!'"
Two things happened at once. First, Fëanor, who in his fury had raised his hands to give the old fool a decent shove, met the hard, smooth surface of stone against his palms and succeeded in toppling the one who had insulted him onto the floor. And secondly, a loud, hearty laughter rang clear throughout the hall.
Fëanor jumped back from the now cracked and downed statue in bewilderment. It took his mind a moment to connect what exactly had happened before he could feel the blood racing to his face. Slowly, he turned toward the entryway where his audience awaited him.
There stood, or rather bent and shook, a young she-elf with rosy cheeks and long curls of reddish-brown that hung loose over a heavy apron. She was so taken with laughter she could hardly stand straight and her red hair glistened merrily in the daylight.
Fëanor, weakened by sore and sour pride, only humphed in response and gave the statue a bitter look and kicked meekly at the head, which had cracked off during the fall.
"You-Oh-oh-" Another wave of rasps and cackles interrupted her words, but the laughter was so gleeful and cheery that Fëanor found his previous anger being sapped away and replaced with a kind of bemused mirth.
"Yes, yes, laugh at my folly, will you," he sighed, though a half-smile was already creeping upon his red face.
"I'm–I'm so sorry, my lord," the young lady finally choked out, through tears and a over-stretched grin. "I–I knew that someday–" With a glance down at the destroyed statue, she lost her composure.
Fëanor let out yet another sigh and pondered how exactly he was going to phrase his apology to the new comer, who was likely the true master sculptor if appearances meant anything. The fact that his face was heating up once again wasn't helping matters in the slightest.
"I suppose I should apologize for what a proper fool I've made of myself," he started, in a much less dignified and princely manner than he'd had liked.
Thankfully, the she-elf had ceased laughing and was approaching him with a friendly smile. "You must be our High-Prince Fëanaro," she said, in a gentle, but clear mock-impression of his previous words.
Fëanor found himself simultaneously returning her smile while forgetting his princely upbringing. The result was a less-than-proper, "I–well...er, yes, I suppose I am."
The young she-elf placed a hand to her heart in a more formal greeting and bowed slightly. "In that case, Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan, at your service, my lord," she said in a voice that was strong and as real as day. "And as I am not a statue, I will gladly show you the way to my father's smithy."